A Thousand Years
by LimboLoner
Summary: "I have lived a thousand years, but I have only ever loved one other.  And though I can never forget, she can never remember."
1. Prologue

**A/N: This story is based off of the book _My Name is __Memory_ by Ann Brashares and the song "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri. It won't follow the same story arc as _Memory_, but it has the same overall concept. So, this genius idea is not mine! **

**Brittany's POV**

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><p><em>A thousand years—that's how long I have been tied to this place; this earth, this world, this fate has never abandoned me, and I assume now that it never will. My lives are short-lived, but my soul is old. It's older than most, but younger than a few. There are a handful of others scattered throughout the world that are like me; that never forget.<em>

_I can remember the dozens of lives I have lived. I can recall the hundreds of places I have visited and the thousands of people I have met. I have spoken many different languages and dialects, and I have been a part of countless cultures. I have lived through the Crusades and died from the plague. I have been born into royalty once and into slavery five times. I have lain with a king and have fought and killed an emperor. I have seen the beginnings of empires and watched them crumble to the ground. The world's history is my history, after all._

_And though the memories of my recent few lives are explicit, my first few are a bit foggy. I was not consciously aware of my special memory when my soul was brand new. I had assumed I was similar to everyone else, floating in the random spaces of existence. It took about three consecutive lives before I realized that I was unlike the others who surrounded me. I found_ _myself remembering moments from another time, another place, another life, and I questioned the reality of this world._

_But time has helped me understand the true nature of my being, and I have grown to grasp the veracity of my memory. After all, thirty lifetimes has given me an infinite amount of wisdom and an unlimited amount of experiences. And I have realized that I am both cursed and exceptionally blessed to have this one soul which cannot die. It is a cruel punishment, yet a beautiful gift. To never forget is an overwhelming feat. And though my lives are always vastly different and harsh in their own ways, there has always been a constant reminder of my one true purpose in each and every one of them._

_Because, I have lived a thousand years, but I have only ever loved one other. And though I can never forget, she can never remember._

_She has no recollection of her past lives, like I do. She cannot remember the dozens of times we have met or the hundreds of years I have spent loving her. She never recognizes me when we meet again; she does not recall how much she loved me in her previous lives._

_But I still hope for a miracle, even after all these years. I still pray that one day I will find her and she will remember me, like I remember her. And that once she does, she never forgets me again._


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just so you guys know, these chapters will alternate between present time and the past, so take note of the date and place at the top of each chapter. This first one is really only an introduction into this world, so hopefully you can get a better understanding of this concept. Anyways, I have a lot of plans for this story and have really enjoyed writing it so far, and I hope you like it. Leave a review so I know what you think, and I apologize for any mistakes. **

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><p><strong>2008<strong>

**Lima, Ohio**

I was six years old when I regained my memory in this life. My family had been living in Cincinnati at the time, and I attended the public school down the street from my house with my two older sisters. It was the second week of December when I got sick, and my family hadn't known how to react. I had always been healthy as a child, and it was the first time I had really ever been severely ill.

I'm pretty sure that I picked up the infection from a fellow classmate who had a knack for spreading illnesses around the first grade, but I guess I'll never know for sure. It's not like it really matters, anyways.

I do remember coming home from school on a Friday with a pretty severe cough, though. My oldest sister, Elizabeth, had asthma so my mom thought she knew what to do when I explained that I was having trouble breathing. She gave me a puff of Elizabeth's albuterol and shrugged off my distress with the rationalization that I had just picked up the common cold.

I had gone straight to bed as soon as I got home that afternoon. My mom brought me some water and antihistamine to help me fall asleep, and it only took a few minutes before I was tumbling into an uncomfortable slumber.

It's intriguing now, thinking back to that particular event, because I can recall the first few vivid dreams I had during those sick days. At the time I hadn't thought too much about them, but now I see the truth in their sequences. They weren't just dreams, they were memories—memories of my deaths. And though they seemed too surreal to be simple fantasies, I was only six and had been too preoccupied with my sickness to delve into analyzing their authenticity.

I can remember one specific dream I had the following Saturday night so well. Only after a few moments of sleep, I had been transported to a faraway time and place I had not recognized. There had been a fire along with an intense panic once I realized I was trapped in the smoky cage of an unfamiliar house. And in the fits of my dream, while my body froze with fear, there were a few distant shrills along with the acute smell of burning flesh. I had never had a nightmare that realistic and frightening before, and I don't think my mind was quite prepared for the intimidation of the dream, so I awoke rather quickly. There was a sudden tingling feeling that ran from the tips of my toes and up the expanse of my body with the realization that it hadn't been a reality. But my relief was only brief because I recognized very quickly the sickly state of my weak body.

I was lying in my pajamas, soaked to the core from an unrelenting sweat. The sheets were wrapped around my limbs, tangled and very damp. And though I knew my body was burning with a raging fever, I was freezing with a harsh chill. My teeth began chattering immediately, and my body started trembling and shivering uncontrollably as sobs racked through my chest. I remember feeling so scared and helpless.

My lungs were clogged with fluid, so breathing was almost impossible. I couldn't yell for help or scream that I was suffocating and surely dying. I recall using every little fiber of energy I could muster to fall out of bed and crawl across the floor to the open door of my bedroom. It mustn't have been too late because I could hear the television from my parents' room down the hallway—it was probably some stupid sitcom that my dad loved to watch.

Anyways, I managed to get about ten feet from my bedroom before I passed out. Everything went black, even though I knew my eyes were open, before I fell into unconsciousness. And the last thing I remember hearing was my mom screaming my name from above me as her arms wrapped around my limp body.

The next couple of days went by in a blur. One moment, I was being carried outside and could make out the flashing of red lights in the distance. And the next moment, I was lying on a stiff bed with sterile, white walls surrounding me.

When I _fully_ came to, and I realized that I was in the hospital, my mom was sitting next to me with puffy eyes and a tear-streaked face. She was holding my hand and rubbing her thumb across the back of my palm in soft, reassuring circles.

My two sisters were standing at the foot of the bed, looking on with worried eyes as well. My father was talking to the doctor, who was reading off of a clipboard and standing next to me. I remember hearing something about "pneumonia" and "high fever" and "lucky to be alive".

But their presence and the obvious realization that I had almost died wasn't the most pressing matter in that single moment. Because somewhere in between my passing out and that awakening, I had gained _a lot_ of knowledge that had come suddenly flying, right out of left field.

I felt older and wiser almost instantaneously with the re-acclimation of my memory. I suddenly remembered who I was and why I was still here—still living, dying, and being reborn. And even at six years old, I could comprehend the sudden intensity of my certainly-adult feelings. Because the last image I had been subjected to before I had awoken was the face of the woman whose soul had shaped mine in more ways than I ever conceived possible. The face and body of the soul I loved so incredibly.

She had been standing over my body with the same fearful and anxious expression across her face that my mother had. She had been crying as well and staring at me with wide brown eyes and a pathetically lost hope. It was the last dream I had while under, and in that moment, it was the only one I could remember.

I know now that those were the last seconds before I died in my first life, a thousand years ago. That was the single trigger which had relinquished the barriers of my memories, causing the waves of remembrances to flood through me again—for the twenty-ninth time in my soul's existence.

And though I remember thinking then that it was impossible for my brain to remember anymore and hold anything else, in the following weeks, months, and years, I found myself recalling even more lives and experiences from my past. (It wasn't until a few years later when I remembered the fire from my dream.)

Once I was finally released from the hospital, everything changed; I was almost a completely different person, and my parents and sisters weren't oblivious to my transformation.

I watched my family's confusion when I started speaking with great maturity and completing tasks a six-year-old shouldn't be able to do. I was reading books from my dad's library that had been published in the last twenty years, and I was learning so much and speaking in the languages I could remember easily. I was able to enjoy and understand the conversations the adults around me shared with each other, even though they believed I was too young and naïve to comprehend. I was only six years old, but I felt older than even my parents.

And now, at eighteen, my memory has reached maturity. It's been a good year and a half since I regained any lost moments from my past, so I assume now that there are none left. I am no longer a child, which is wonderful because I finally feel like my body matches the adult nature of my mind. I still live with my family, whose opinions of me have greatly changed since I was a young girl.

They still love me, but they don't understand me. They can't relate to the nature of my genius or the experience of my age. I have never told them about my memory—it has always seemed like the best option. I definitely don't want to look crazy and end up wasting this perfectly decent life in some metal institution. After all, it's one of the better ones I've had in a while.

We've lived almost everywhere in the country because my father's job is constantly relocating. And though I've already been to a lot of the cities and towns we move to, I still look forward to the changes and new opportunities. I get bored rather easily, so variation is a necessity for me.

And when we move somewhere new, even if it's a place I've already visited, I get to observe how much change has occurred. New cities have sprung up from the once-wooded hills, and buildings now tower over the plains of old homes and memories. It's marvelous to watch the world grow, and I almost feel more connected to our planet than I do other people.

But most of all, I look forward to traveling because—more than anything—I want to find _her_. Just knowing she is out there somewhere in the world is enough to make me dizzy with desire. And though I know she can't remember, I often wonder if she feels the same sickening need for my presence, like I do hers. I wonder if she feels alone and desperate for our connection, like I do every moment of my existence.

I've been through enough lives now to know that she and I will eventually find each other again. Fate has a way of rejoining us when I least expect it, so I know my searching is almost pointless—we will find each other eventually. I only have to be patient.

My father, mother and I have just moved to Lima, Ohio; my two sisters have graduated and moved on with their lives. I sometimes feel bad because I no longer share a connection and familiarity with my family, like I used to. There is only one other whose companionship I truly long for, and I don't know where she is, what she looks like in this life, or even her name.

All I know is that since I stepped foot onto the property of my new home only an hour ago, something feels different. _She _feels closer somehow, and I have a sudden burning inclination that I've almost found her again. And with that knowledge, my longing has already increased ten-fold.

"Brittany," I hear my mom call from inside my house, and I look away from the neighboring woods towards her voice. "Come help me put away this kitchen stuff!"

It's odd how I can still react to a name. It would make sense that after all this time, after the thirty different names I have carried, that I wouldn't turn a head to the sound of a new one. But my childhood gives me time to prepare and get acquainted to my new body and self. I think that's why I don't remember as soon as I am born—I need time to mature a little before I am too overwhelmed.

I roll my eyes and sigh loudly before I cross the yard and enter my new house. And though everything seems mundane now, the hope that I might see her again has me suddenly and unexpectedly reeling.

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><p>Sometimes I wonder if God or whoever creates souls made a mistake with my conception. He managed to give me an incredible memory and an undeniable connection to another soul which has interestingly always belonged in a female body, just like mine. But I have met others in past lives who share the same memory as I do, so He must have had some purpose behind it all. He must have known what He was doing when He tied my soul to <em>hers <em>for eternity. At least that's what I've concluded.

The few others I have met who are like me are usually much younger and have told me that their past lives are not as clear as I remember mine to be. Though I met a man once who claimed to be ten thousand years old, and he told me almost every little detail of his first life like it had occurred yesterday. So, though I often find myself feeling lonely, I know I am never truly alone.

And as I walk through the halls of my new high school, in a new town, surrounded by brand-new people, I tell myself this over and over again, like a never-ending mantra inside my head. I have to constantly remind myself that, though I cannot relate to my new peers on a normal teenage level, there _are_ a few people in the world who understand me. There are a few others who manage to get by and continue to live their lives despite having a special memory.

My parents do not _make_ me attend high school. In fact, they don't even understand my desire to continue living with them when I could move away and study in college or pursue a career. Though, they _have_ started giving me a choice because finally, after twelve years, they grasp the level of intelligence and knowledge I posses.

So when I told them that I wanted to enroll at McKinley High School once we moved to Ohio, they gave me a couple questioning stares and an "are you sure" before agreeing and signing the necessary paperwork. I don't explain that I subject myself to the tedious monotony of high school because I'm looking for _her_—the soul who is also confined in a teenage girl's body. They don't need to know that.

I'm honestly not sure how many times I've attended and graduated from high school. It's never been an important part of my past lives, so I haven't kept track. But I have been a high school student long enough to realize that new kids are always outcasts, no matter what new city they move to. The curious stares and intriguing looks coming from the teenagers around me are proof of this realization.

I know they look at me and see someone interestingly different. Though I am the same age as they are, my eyes shine with a different purpose. My face shows off an unfamiliar wisdom that they cannot understand. Plus, there is a deeply attractive quality to my overall being that confuses them. I've never figured out why, but younger souls seem to become deeply engrossed in the distinctive character of older ones. It's not so much a physical attraction as it is a spiritual one. My body isn't odd; I'm tall and lean with blonde hair and blue eyes, which isn't totally uncommon. But they can feel the almost-divine aspect of my soul, and that creates a separation between us that my body doesn't.

I really don't like the feeling of being so far away from everyone else, so I've been assigned a student mentor at McKinley and agreed to let her show me around the campus. The secretary at the front office handed me a map of the school and pointed to the choir room, before going back to her other business. You're looking for Quinn Fabray, she had told me on my way out.

The hallways are filled with students, most of whom are turning their heads in my direction as I pass them. I can hear them whispering behind my back and most definitely talking about me, but I don't turn around to catch exactly what they're saying. It's always the same, but usually worse in smaller towns like Lima where everyone knows everybody else. Except, I'm new and they don't know anything about me, so they watch me intently.

Every so often I look down to the map to make sure I'm going the right way and haven't passed my destination. The room numbers are slowly beginning to decrease in value, and before I know it, I'm standing at the entrance of what I assume is the choir room. I don't enter, but I sneak my head in so I can peer inside.

I can see only one girl sitting in the very corner with her books spread out across the floor and a pencil tip in between her teeth. She's blonde just like me and quite pretty in her red and white cheerleading outfit, but she has an innocent look of confusion and frustration stretched across her face that takes away from her beauty. She looks upset and almost angry.

When I squint my eyes, I glance at the subject name on the cover of the textbook she's studying from. _Shakespeare_, it reads, and I can't help the quiet laugh that escapes my lips. The blonde girl, who I suppose is really Quinn, looks up to meet my gaze. I don't hesitate to enter once she sees me standing at the door.

I watch as her eyes bulge at the sight of me—it's become a common response when people first take in my appearance. I know she's noticing the subtle difference in my features, just like everyone else always does.

The staring _usually_ lasts a few minutes and goes on until I finally say something, which is why I'm suddenly confused when her expression fades away almost as fast as it appeared. She no longer seems as impressed as she was only a moment ago, and her face has quickly turned indifferent with a surprising recognition and familiarity. It's almost as if she's seen a similar soul before—one that is just as old as mine, if not older.

I don't have much time to think too deeply about it because before I know it, Quinn's standing up and putting her textbook down so she can approach me. I stay still and wait for her advance.

"Are you Brittany?" she asks when she finally stops in front of me.

I peer straight into her brown eyes; I'm trying to gauge her personality before I decide how to respond. I have a knack for reading people, and I've learned how to approach different scenarios with others based on their character. She looks kind enough, so I step closer and hold out my hand.

"Yeah," I answer as I nod my head. She lifts her hand to clutch mine and gives a gentle shake.

"Cool, I'm Quinn," she introduces herself with a polite grin. When she releases her grasp, her eyes glance to the clock on the adjacent wall to our left.

"Damn," she curses under her breath before her eyes find mine again. I give her a friendly smile.

"Sorry," she says, and chuckles. "I didn't realize it was so late already. I was going to go down to the office and meet you there, but I've been wracking my brains trying to understand this Shakespeare stuff before first block," she finishes and smiles.

I can't understand her particular struggle, but I do sympathize with her frustration. There are still a few subjects which, no matter how many years I spend studying, I can't ever comprehend. But literature and history are never unattainable concepts for me. I've lived through too much and read entirely too many books throughout my lifetimes.

"It's really fine," I explain and look back over to the pile of books towards the back of the room. "I don't mind waiting."

She follows my line of sight, turning around to look back over her shoulder. She laughs when she acknowledges the mess she has made.

"I usually spend every morning in this room trying to do homework and stuff. It's quiet and most people don't really hang out in here," she laughs again, as if there's more to it than that.

We stand opposite each other for a minute, and neither of us says anything else. I watch as her expression changes from amused to curious. She's not looking at me with bewilderment, like she was when she first saw me, but she _is_ observing me with a critical eye. And there's something about the lines and wrinkles slowly appearing on her forehead that tell me she's trying to figure something out, trying to make a connection. She's not leering like the others in the hallway, but she is staring and it's starting to make me uncomfortable.

I shift in my stance and move my gaze around the room, trying to distract her intense brown eyes, and move them away from my face. I think she eventually notices how uncomfortable her gawking is making me because she clears her throat and takes a step backwards.

"Sorry," she apologizes and shakes her head slightly.

I don't hesitate to assure her that it's fine. "It's okay, really," I respond and begin fiddling with the papers in my hand.

"Well," she begins and looks at the clock again. "Let me pack up my stuff real quick, and then I'll show you around?"

I nod my head in agreement and watch her as she turns around and walks back over to the scattered pile of schoolwork at the top of the room.

"So, where did you move here from?" she asks, with her back turned towards me as she puts away her papers and stacks her textbooks before stuffing them in her bag.

"Um… Phoenix," I answer and move to sit down in one of the many blue, plastic chairs resting on the carpeted risers. "My dad works in sales, so we're constantly relocating," I explain.

"Hmmm," she nods her head, and I can hear her mumble something under her breath, but I can't make out any specific words.

It's a few more minutes before she's finally put everything away, and when she swings her bag across her back and turns to face me again, I let out a heavy exhale. There's something so uncomfortable about introductions and small talk with new people, which I find awfully strange because I've had so much time to perfect the art of greetings and pointless ramblings. Quinn seems really nice and everything too, but I don't know her; and though she seems different from other people, I still don't enjoy the way her eyes linger over me with oddity.

"You ready?" she asks, and I stand to join her as she steps down to the pit of the room.

"Sure," I agree and smile before tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

She leads me out of the choir room, and we enter the busy hallways again. There seems to be even more students scurrying about and running to get to their classes. I stay close to Quinn's side so I don't loose her and get lost. And amidst all the hustle and bustle, I've suddenly realized that fewer peopling are staring at me. They probably don't notice me in the crowded jumble of teenagers, but it's still a comforting release.

"Do you have your schedule?" Quinn turns to face me as we keep moving down the hallway.

I unfold the papers in my hands and flip through them quickly before removing one from the stack.

"Here," I say and hand it to her. She takes it and looks over it carefully, still managing to navigate through the throngs of people.

"Well, you have first block with me, so I can just walk with you to Mrs. Duncan's room when the bell rings. Her classroom's on the other side of the school, near the offices and the cafeteria." She looks up quickly and meets my eyes again. "Did you see the lunch room on your way in?" she asks.

I nod my head, as I recall the large mall area containing rows of tables and an adjacent food line.

"Well, then all I really need to show y…"

"Hey, Quinn?" I hear another girl call from behind us, interrupting Quinn's sentence.

It doesn't take too long for me to process the voice and stop dead in my tracks. Quinn halts too, and turns to look behind us to greet the other female.

It's only a voice, but it sends shivers up my spine. It's only a voice, one that I've definitely never heard before, but I recognize it immediately. I always know it's _her_ even though everything about her appearance and voice is drastically different. It's the connection she has with me, and it flows deeper than even my own blood. It's not just a part of my body; it's ingrained in my soul, in my existence. I've waited and hoped for too long for this. And, I _just know_ it's her.

"Hey, Santana," Quinn says.

I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the enormity and importance of this single moment. I slowly move my feet in a circular motion and turn so I can finally see her, keeping the line of my eyesight level. And it only takes a brief moment before I'm facing her again for the first time in eighteen years, and the first time in this new life.

_Santana_, I repeat in my head when my eyes finally find hers. And it's all the confirmation I need.

Because there it is: that same aura and distinction only present in souls like ours—souls which have been around for a very long time. And I suddenly realize that _Quinn_ had noticed the similarities between the two of us the moment I had stepped into the choir room. She had been connecting the dots and juxtaposing and analyzing us. She could _see _us in a way most others didn't.

And Santana is _truly_ beautiful, there is no argument there. I guess it really wouldn't have mattered what body her soul occupied, though; she will always be the only one who _really _means anything to me. The only one who can ever hold my heart in the palm of her hand.

But here she is, with deep, wide brown eyes that remind me of so much. Her skin is tan and she looks Hispanic with her creamy and darker complexion. Her hair is brown, shiny and long and falls from her head in soft, gentle curls. She is a lot smaller and thinner than I remember her being in her last life, but she is only a couple inches shorter than me.

And as each second passes, I have to remind myself to breath, because the intensity of this moment and the realization that I have _truly _found her again is almost too much.

When I finally pull through the daze and return to reality, I recognize the surprising and powerful expression sketched across her face. I know exactly what she's feeling in this moment because she told me once, about a hundred years ago, what it was like when she saw me for the first time.

She said that it was a simple moment of clarity and an extreme sense of déjà vu that she just couldn't figure out, no matter how hard she tried. She had told me that it felt like finally being awakened for the first time, even though she hadn't realized she had been asleep. She just _knew _that she had seen me before, but couldn't remember. She said that it had been _very _overwhelming and extremely intimidating, so she warned me to be careful with what I chose to say at first.

I can remember that particular life with her better than almost every other, because for that short period of time in which we lived together, I knew she loved me just as much as I loved her. There hadn't been another past life in which we had grown so close or felt so connected. And in that one conversation, when she had told me about her feelings when we had first met again, she said that it had been love at first sight. She couldn't explain it in any other way.

I do believe that's what it is—the moment we find each other after so many years apart. But I realize that she had admitted that to me only after we had spent so much time together. I don't think she would have agreed that she was in love with me the very moment we met. So, I don't expect that now either.

Instead, I settle for the only word I can muster in this single second.

"Hi," I say and I watch as her confused face falters and her mouth turns up into a wide smile.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, these first few flashback chapters are shorter, but they _will_ get much longer as the story goes along and Brittany is able to remember stuff better :) Also, this chapter is kind of sad, and I'm going to apologize ahead of time for that. Sorry... But I hope you like it anyways. Sorry for any mistakes, and leave a review so I know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, anything related to Glee, or _My Name is Memory_. They simply gave me the inspiration to write this story!**

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><p><strong>1020<strong>

**Constantinople**

I don't remember many of the events from my first lives; the edges of my memory are a little foggy and unclear from that time. It's similar to living with blurry vision—I can recall the big moments and concepts from my early years, but some of the smaller, more important and beautiful details are lost in the unfocused facets of my unconscious. Sometimes when I dream, I find myself watching scenes from my soul's youth, and in those moments, I can make out familiar faces and moments of my childhood. But when I wake up, my oldest memories are often hazy again, and I always feel frustrated because of my brain's mortal limitations.

What I _can_ differentiate and recall, I keep closest to my heart. Those few memories and events are important to me because they were crafted only shortly after my soul was born. They hold the truth about my birthplace and origins. And in a world in which my soul never dies, they represent the only place that I can truly call home.

I was first born in Constantinople, the great capital of the Byzantine Empire, in the eleventh century. My first life was extraordinarily short, but the events during the last couple of months before I passed have always stuck with me, even to this day.

It was a harsh and cruel first life in the beginning, but I didn't know any better. As a young slave girl, I was bought and re-sold maybe fifty times throughout all my childhood. I was never given the opportunity to settle down and grow comfortable in one place for too long. I was a belonging, a possession—used and then thrown away.

And it was such a shame because Constantinople was one of the most beautiful and magnificent places I remember living. In those years that I recall, I've never seen a city so busy and prosperous. There was money practically seeping through the great walls of the city, but I could never get my hands on any of it. I wasn't worthy of anything, really.

My parents were gone; I assumed that they were dead, but I didn't know for sure because I didn't remember them. There was no way to find them even if they were alive. I was a helpless and ill-fated girl in the throngs of a bustling and carefree society, and I truly believed I was going to be subjected to misery for the rest of my life.

Fate had other plans for me, though.

When I turned twelve, my owner at the time—a plump and rich merchant whose name I've forgotten—sold me to one the emperor's magistrates, and I was moved into a large estate near the Great Palace about a week later.

I remember how drastically my life changed the minute I stepped through the walls of that new home; I was taken care of, fed, and clothed. The magistrate didn't treat his slaves as harshly as I was used to, and after a small length of time, I found myself feeling almost comfortable and relieved for the first time in my life.

Though, the first day was intimidating and nerve-racking because I was in a new place and surrounded by completely new people. After living in so many different households and environments, it would make sense that the novelty of constantly moving to a new home shouldn't have affected me very much, but it did. Every time.

I was scared and nervous, just like any other twelve-year-old would have been in my position.

But, I quickly developed a relationship with one of the older slave girls, and things soon started to fall into place.

Her name was Anna, and she was about five years older than me. I'm surprised that I can recall her name in that life, but for some reason it has never departed from my memory. I can say with absolute certainty, that she was the only person in my first life whom I actually cared for.

Anna was a welcome and interesting surprise that seemed to calm my jitters. She wasn't like the other slaves, and there was something unusual about her that drew my attention. Like, how she always acted superior to the other girls, yet I could see the fear and uncertainty of inadequacy behind her dark brown eyes. Or the way she tried to act indifferent and harsh around everyone, when _I_ knew that she truly cared for the rest of us. And most importantly—me.

I didn't know what she saw in my young, adolescent self, but from the very first day, she took me under her wing and taught me the ropes of living and serving for the magistrate. She took care of me and managed to save me from a lot of inevitable mistakes and embarrassment. She treated me like a sister which I was very grateful for, because for the first time ever, I felt like I had a family. _She _became my family.

Though, Anna didn't dispense the same care and liking to the rest of the slaves, like she did towards me. I didn't question her choices and motivations at first, but I remember wanting to understand the reasons behind her actions. Because, despite the level of affection she showed me, she was almost too cruel to the others.

I knew she cared about them, they were _her _family after all, but she didn't display her positive emotions very well. Something had happened to her which had resulted in her strongly unkind disposition.

There are only a few specific memories from that life in which I can recall exact conversations and exchanged words I shared with others. The ones I do remember have been recovered in dreams, and I have written them down so I don't risk forgetting them again.

The day Anna told me about her past was one of those memories.

It was about a year after I had moved in, and we were lying in our beds, staring up at the ceilings while the soft snores of the other slaves drifted through the cramped room. Usually, I listened to her fall asleep and waited until her breathing evened out before I shut out my thoughts and tried to enter a dreamless sleep. That's how I knew she was awake too, because her breathing was still a little frantic and unsteady.

"Anna?" I turned towards her bed next to mine and found her deep, pensive eyes trailing over my face.

There was always something about the way she looked at me—like she was too old, had seen too much, and was afraid for me. It sent shivers up my spine when she looked at me like that.

"Yeah?" she whispered back, and I closed my eyes at the sound of her voice. Even her voice offered a comfort I couldn't account for.

I hesitated because I didn't want to upset her. She was so much older, wiser, and intimidating, and I didn't want her to treat me any differently than she did. I loved her—she took care of me and watched out for me. I didn't want to loose her. But my curiosity was not very subtle.

"Why do you treat me differently than the other girls? I don't understand why you're so mean to them…"

There was no immediate response, and the silence seemed to penetrate the room with an uncomfortable stillness. I don't know how long I laid there waiting for her to answer me.

If it weren't for the moonlight shinning through the open window a few feet from our cots, I wouldn't have seen the single tear fall down her cheek. But my eyesight was very good and I was pretty observant, so I didn't miss it.

"Anna?" I finally spoke again, and when my voice rang through the room, I heard her soft sniffles hidden beneath it. She was crying, and I didn't understand why.

"Are you okay?" my voice was shaky as I continued to watch her with sympathetic intrigue.

"Uhhhhh…" she sniffled and wiped away the single tear. "Yeah, I'm okay."

The following moment seemed to drag on forever, and when I thought she wasn't going to say anything else, I turned over and snuggled into the thin cloth beneath my lean body. I wasn't expecting her to crawl into the bed and wrap her arms around me in a vice-like hold, like she did. She had been literally shaking as her tears soaked through the thin fabric on my back, burning through my skin.

And as her head fell into the back of my small frame, I froze.

"I won't let them hurt you," she sobbed quietly into my torn shirt.

I remember being so puzzled by her reaction and words. She was crying and saying things that didn't make any sense to me, and all I could do was lay there and let her hold me—like it gave her an immense amount of consolation.

Eventually, her sobs died down and she was breathing in even breaths. I thought she had fallen asleep, but then her words chimed through the air, and I almost jerked.

"You just remind me of her… _so much_," she mumbled into my shirt. I was even more confused, then.

"Who?" I squeaked.

"Catherine," Anna answered after a few seconds, her voice extremely hoarse from crying. "She would be the same age as you now."

Something clicked inside my head in that moment, and I realized that she was talking about her family. Or rather, her sister—her _real _sister; it must have been. I gulped behind the hands that were curled up to my mouth.

"What happened?" I managed to say and fell silent, as I waited for her few leftover sobs to trail away so she could talk.

"She was killed three years ago…by a foreign tradesman," she stopped to take a deep breath and nuzzle even further into my skin. "She was just a little girl, and he took her from me," she buried her face and began crying again.

I'd never felt as helpless as I did in that single moment. She was clinging to me like I was the only person who could give her the one thing she wanted so desperately.

But, I wasn't her sister. I was only a child who had happened to find her. And she was my best friend and I loved her so much, but I couldn't do anything for her to make her pain go away. So, I just let her cry and hold me until she tumbled into a defeated slumber.

During the following weeks, I watched as her harsh exterior stripped away. I couldn't tell if she was trying to please me, even though I hadn't asked her to, or if she had finally reached a point in which she didn't have the energy to be antagonistic anymore. After all, I had slowly noticed her composure slipping away. Talking about her sister must have released a lot of unwelcomed memories. I was so glad that she had finally confided in me, though.

We grew much closer as well, and I found about a million other things about her personality, mannerisms, and speech that I learned to love. If that was even possible.

Sometimes, I felt her gaze linger on me, and when I found her eyes from afar, she would always give me the same sincere smile that unexpectedly made me giddy and sent my heart fluttering. She always had a strange affect on me that I couldn't understand, but I never thought too much about it.

And every night, she would crawl back into bed with me and hold me until we drifted off with her arms wrapped tightly around my torso, like I needed protection even in sleep. I gained a sense of security during those nights that left me feeling almost… happy. It wasn't a sensation that I was used to, but I learned to accept it with open arms when it came my way. And almost always, Anna was with me when it arrived.

Now, when I try and think back, I can't be sure if the feelings I developed for her were romantic in any way. It's so hard to differentiate because my love for her has been clouded with memories from more recent lives—lives in which our love was much less-innocent than in my first life.

I guess it really doesn't matter at this point, though. All that mattered was that my soul was being sewn to hers, slowly but surely, and by the time I died, our connection was irreversible and impossible to sever.

* * *

><p>My death was unexpected and pitiless, and I <em>still<em> feel so horrible for leaving _her_ when we were so young. It was even worse, knowing that she had already lost a sister so unfairly, and I was the only family she had left. So, I held on as long as I could out of sheer love for her, but there was only so much my mind could control over my weak and fragile body.

So, when the fever and plague caught up to me, I was already so overwhelmed with anguish, knowing that I was leaving her forever, that I didn't last very long. I simply couldn't take any more.

It was an antagonizing and slow death, and remains one of the most heart-breaking and painful in all of my lives. I think the emotions behind it, are what made it so much worse to bear. And I've died in many harsh and horrible ways. But, when I think back on all of them, only a handful occurred with _her _by my side, loving me until I drew my last breaths. And those were _always _the hardest.

Anna never left my side during the last few days of my first life.

And the image of her standing above me with a tear-streaked face, praying to wait just a little longer, has always been one of the first memories to appear in a new life. Usually, I remember during a fever; it's like the final straw, releasing a flood of previous lives' moments.

But unlike my other deaths, in which I knew about my memory and could give her condolence, I wasn't able to tell her that we would find each other again. I think that's what made that death so sad—that I couldn't give her the reassurance she was practically begging for.

Because, I didn't know that I would remember every moment we spent together in that life and the dozens after. And if I could go back in time, that would be the one thing I would do differently.

Instead of muttering that I was sorry before I closed my eyes forever, I would have told her that I would never forget her. Ever.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry for the wait. I was away this weekend, so I couldn't post. Also, I'm going on vacation next week, so it may be a while before I get to put up the next chapter. But, it will be ready as soon as possible. Anyways, here's the next part. Leave a review so I know what you think, and I apologize for any mistakes. **

****Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, anything related to Glee, or _My Name is Memory_. They simply gave me the inspiration to write this story!****

* * *

><p><strong>2008<strong>

**Lima, Ohio**

After living so long, time has come to mean something entirely different for me. I think I've developed an understanding and appreciation for the rules and exactitude of it, that most others cannot comprehend. Because for me, time is often the only thing holding my broken, ancient pieces together. It is the only matter that I am able to rely on and look to when I need some sort of structure in my lives. During the years that I have to live without _her_, time is sometimes my only friend. And no matter what has happened to my many bodies, it has never abandoned me. Not once.

And time tends to pass especially quickly at school, even though the classes at McKinley are very dull and I often feel like school in general is an insult to my intelligence. But I still walk the halls and sit through the lectures. Going to high school is the only way I get to see Santana, so I don't really have any other choice.

Santana may be a new face to me in this life, but almost everything about her character and behavior that I've observed, I recognize and remember. She still remains the same soul that I've spent my whole existence falling in love with. So to me, she isn't unfamiliar even in the slightest.

It's been almost three weeks since I arrived at McKinley, and she hasn't spoken to me yet—except for the quick exchange we shared my first day—but I've noticed her gaze on me quite frequently. Her face scrunches up and she cocks her head to the side ever so slightly, and I can't help but giggle at her watching me. She's curious about me, and I feel so smug at that notion.

But she's not the only guilty one, because _my_ eyes hardly ever leave her. The only difference is that I'm not self-conscious about it, like I've discovered she is. Because whenever I turn to face her staring at me, she blushes crimson red and then looks away quickly. It's honestly one of the most adorable things I've ever seen.

And Santana is _so_ incredibly gorgeous. I may be biased because I'm so pathetically in love with her, but there are plenty of other students at school that have taken a deep interest and appreciation for her beauty as well. I can't help but smirk and chuckle when some of the younger boys' stares linger a little too long.

I'm not jealous, and I don't even care about the extra attention she receives. Why would I? I know for a fact that no one will make her happier than I can. No one will ever love her as much as I do; it's simply impossible.

Santana is in only two of my classes, but when we're in the same room together, there's always this sense of urgency and colossal allure suspended in the air. It sometimes makes me a little uncomfortable, and I know she feels it too because I watch her squirm in her chair all class period.

She can't remember, but I know she's feeling this indisputable pull towards me that she doesn't understand—it's her soul's way of telling her that we are meant to be together. At least I have something going for me.

The gossip behind my back has slowly died down since my first day. It's a surprising relief, and I'm finding that comfort is easier to come by when I don't have unwelcome stares and words being tossed around me. Most people just tend to ignore me now.

Quinn still finds me everyday to make sure I'm doing okay, though. I reassure her that everything's fine and she gives me hesitant smiles that make me roll my eyes playfully. But in all seriousness, I really do like Quinn. She's kind and sincere, _and _she's best friends with Santana since they're both on the cheerleading squad. So, when I ask Quinn about her, I know I'm getting reliable information.

"Brittany!" I hear someone call from behind me as I'm walking to my next class, and I turn quickly to the unfamiliar voice.

I recognize him pretty quickly—he's the boy who sits next to me in my first period English Literature class. He's tall, thin, a football player, Asian, and he was the one who let me borrow a copy of _Hamle_t my first day of school. We've talked a few times since, but usually I'm just answering his questions when he's confused about the class-work. I can't remember his name, though. I'm not very good with names; there's just too many of them I try to keep track of in my head.

"Yeah?" I respond and move to the side of the hallway so we aren't in the way. The friendly Asian boy comes to stand in front of me.

"Hey…" he takes a minute to catch his breath and adjust the straps of his backpack. He must have been hurrying to catch up to me, and I wonder if he was calling my name the whole way down the hallway. If he was, I'm sorry.

That's another negative consequence of my memory—I'm easily distracted and sometimes zone out and end up missing the reality playing around me. I can't help that my mind often drifts off. The past is usually more exciting than the present. Especially when I'm not with _her_. And though I know she's just a few hallways down from me, she still feels miles away. I miss her so much it hurts, and my memories keep me in her company.

After a minute, he pulls his backpack over his shoulder and unzips the bag so he can remove a red folder that I recognize as mine. I must have left it in the classroom.

"Here, I thought you might need this," he hands it to me, and I take it graciously.

"Thanks, I was in a rush to get out of there. I must have missed it," I say.

"No problem. And I'm Mike by the way, in case you forgot. I know it's probably really confusing with all these new people," he smiles warmly and I nod.

"Where are you headed to next?" he asks, as I move to place the folder back into my bag.

"Government," I say while I zip up my backpack.

"You want to walk together? I have French right across the hall," he cocks his eyebrow as he waits for my answer.

"Sure," I shrug my shoulders, and we both start walking down the crowded hallway again.

Our classes are on the other side of the building, so it takes a few minutes to get there. Mike asks me about my family and old schools. I don't delve into anything in too much depth; I just give him the basic info. But he seems actually interested in what I'm saying and it's a little surprising.

When we stop at the entrance into the classroom, Mike takes a second to clear his throat.

"So, I'm throwing this party this weekend, and I was wondering if you wanted to come," he shuffles his feet and looks down at me nervously.

"Pretty much all of the senior class is coming, so it shouldn't be a bust or anything. I'm sure you'll have fun," he reassures me.

As nice as his invitation is, I don't really do parties. I've never felt the need to throw myself into that type of immature environment before. There's nothing appealing about getting wasted and watching people make fools out of themselves. I've spent too much time trying to convince the people around me to see me as an older and more adult individual, that I often skip my adolescent and teen years altogether.

But, there is a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me that Santana's a cheerleader, and that cheerleaders probably go to these types of parties. And I suddenly can't think of a reason _not_ to go.

"Yeah, sure. Where is it?" I ask.

A group of girls practically run right between us before he has the chance to answer, so we head off to the side of the hallway.

"You live in Cottage Brook, right?" he questions as he squints his eyes.

I nod my head. "Yeah, that's right."

"Well, I'm pretty sure that you moved into the house right down the street from me. So, just look for the cars and people on Friday, and that's where it's at," he beams, showing off his perfectly white teeth.

"Okay, I guess I'll see you then," I say before I wave goodbye and cross the hallway to enter my next block class.

* * *

><p>Friday arrives faster than I expected, and before I have time to really prepare myself, I'm standing on the doorstep of Mike's house.<p>

Though I should be nervous and anxious about my first high school party in like fifty years, I can't get the hilarious looks that my parents gave me before coming, out of my head. So, I'm having trouble keeping the giggles at bay. They just wouldn't expect me to be into this kind of thing, and they're right.

I don't know if I should knock or just walk in, but when a couple rushes past me hand in hand and flings open the door like it's not even there, I take a deep breath and follow them into the house.

Mike's home is really nice; much nicer than mine. It looks like his family did a lot of renovations to the inside because there are beautiful and shiny new hardwood floors beneath my feet. The walls are freshly painted and there's fancy, modern furniture everywhere.

The whole place is already packed with people, and there's loud music coming from the room down the hall. I can see kids dancing, while holding plastic cups that I'm sure have more than just apple juice in them.

Most of the teenagers I recognize from my classes, and as I continue down the hall and enter the kitchen, I find Mike standing in the corner talking to another Asian girl that I recognize from my government class.

He catches me out of the corner of his eye and waves to me from across the room. I wave back.

For the next couple of minutes, I wander around the downstairs and watch everything going on around me. I see a really tall, brunette guy from my Biology class standing next to an extremely short girl with a sweater vest. They look awkward together, but the girl keeps sending the tall boy loving glances and it's kind of cute. I have a soft spot for love.

I see Quinn in the corner talking to a blonde boy with big lips. She doesn't see me, but I smile at her anyways.

But even after wandering around for a while, I can't find Santana, and I'm starting to wonder if she even came at all. My shoulders slump lower and I exhale loudly in disappointment. I was _really _hoping that she would be here.

The noise is almost too much, and there are too many people, so I make a quick bolt to a door near the breakfast nook. I'd rather be alone outside than in here with all the craziness suffocating me.

The air is clean and clear, and as I step outside the house and close the sliding glass door behind me, I take a deep breath and sigh loudly.

It's not really cold, but there's a slight breeze that has made the air a little chilly. I roll down the sleeves of my sweatshirt so they cover my arms, and wrap my limbs tightly around my torso in hopes of keeping warm.

Mike's backyard is covered in leaves and laced with tall oak trees about ten meters away from the house. The sun is at the edge of the horizon, slowly making its way to the brink of the earth. I can see the colorful sunset through the bare trees—all the reds, oranges, purples, greens, and blues. It's breath-taking, and my mind immediately jumps to a memory of a beautiful sunset from Martha's Vineyard about fifty years ago.

I shake my head and shut my eyes tightly as that image from so long ago pastes itself to the inside of my eyelids.

It was a gorgeous moment from my past, but it was also filled with pain and loss. I don't like to think about the feelings associated with that day, but the peace I felt in those minutes so long ago is forever ingrained in my head. Whenever I see a sunset, my mind finds its way to the finality of that heart-braking and sentimental sunset.

Though I have spent many of my years living and loving with all that I am, tragedy and suffering, I have learned, are almost as persistent as happiness. It's just an inevitable part of life. Trust me, I know.

I want to laugh or smirk when I realize that Santana is a few yards away, sitting on a rod iron patio chair with her back to me. I can appreciate the irony of this picture now.

I move quietly and take the few steps between us slowly so I don't startle her. There's an adjacent chair to her that I'm headed for.

"Hey," I say quietly as I take a seat on the patio chair next to her. Her eyes immediately jump to me and widen in surprise.

She doesn't say anything, as her eyes bear through my exterior. There's that look again—the one that sends shivers up my spine every time. I can't help the light blush I feel cover my face. Sometimes I still find her intimidating. It probably has something to do with the control and power she has over my heart. I'm practically holding it out on a platter for her to do with it what she pleases. And unfortunately, I've learned from past experience that she can break me into a million pieces just as easily as she can make me feel whole.

I know I should have the right words prepared and memorized for these exchanges. It would be much easier and less nerve-racking if I didn't have to come up with new things to say to her every time I try and talk to her again in a new life. I would probably be feeling much more comfortable in her presence right now.

But if there's one thing I appreciate about living so long and remembering, it's that there's nothing repetitive about my relationships and experiences. Almost every new life is a brand new chance to fall in love and learn new things. I wouldn't want to keep living the same life over and over again. I would end up feeling like I'm stuck in some sort of purgatory and less inclined to believe that this gift of memory has graced me with moments of complete heaven.

So instead of racking my brains, trying to think of what to say, I just watch and listen.

I can feel Santana's eyes still staring at me, but I don't look back at her. Instead, my eyes drift back to the sunset and I let my mind wander away from this place.

When a breeze blows by us and whips my long, blonde hair around in circles, my mind returns to the present and I turn back to face Santana.

She's wearing tight, black jeans and a fitted grey t-shirt, and she has her arms wrapped around her legs that are pressed up against her chest. She shivers, and I notice the little goose bumps that have suddenly appeared across her tan skin.

There's no hesitation in my response to the observations.

"Do you want my sweatshirt?" I ask. Though, I'm taking it off before I give her the chance to answer.

She just nods her head and I offer her a warm smile and hand over my sweater when I've removed it from my body. She continues to stare at me with intrigue, and I can't help but wonder what she's thinking.

"What are you thinking about?" I finally say.

Santana puts her arms through the sleeves and ducks her head so she can settle into the jacket. When she finishes adjusting it, she leans back in her chair to meet my eyes again.

My heart does a little flip, and I feel the same butterflies that I always encounter when she's near fluttering through my belly. It's not really an uncomfortable feeling anymore, because I've learned to associate it with happy and meaningful times. It's my own conditioning.

She squints her eyes and cocks her head to the side, just like I've watched her do for the past couple of weeks. My eyes don't leave hers for a second.

"I feel like I've seen you before," she admits softly, and I smile with understanding.

I know I can't possibly tell her that she has indeed seen me before. I can't tell her that the last time she _really _saw me, she was in love with me. I can't tell her how long she has _truly_ known me.

"I think I would've remembered," I answer at last, smirking at her.

Her cheeks blush red and I try to hold back my laugh, but I'm unsuccessful, so she raises her eyebrows in confusion and embarrassment.

"It's a complement, Santana," I reassure her, and I take a moment to appreciate the way her name rolls off my tongue. It's so beautiful and fits her perfectly.

I lift my legs and pull them to my chest so I'm sitting just like Santana.

"So, do you not like parties?" I ask, and bring my arms close to my body so I can stay warm without my sweatshirt.

She gives me a quizzical stare and I return a friendly smile.

She eventually sighs and grins back to me in explanation. "I do…"

"But?" I push.

"My boyfriend pisses me off," she states and turns her eyes away from me for the first time since I sat down.

Ah, the boyfriend.

I've seen him around sometimes, but I haven't really taken the time to fully assess him. I know he's a football player and sports a ridiculous Mohawk, but that's about it. Honestly, he seems like a real loser.

But Santana must have some reason for being with him. She's very smart, after all.

"What happened?" I ask with curiosity.

She shakes her head as I watch hints of anger and annoyance appear on her face.

"Nothing in particular. He's just a total ass sometimes," she rolls her eyes and sighs again.

I chuckle and nod my head.

We stay there and continue to look out in the distance at the setting sun. There's something so calming about just being near Santana. Her presence has a way of making my insides warm and bubbly. I still miss our intimacy and closeness, but for now, I'm content just sitting here with her.

"Quinn told me that you moved here from Phoenix. What was it like there? Was it really hot?" she asks with her head turned away from me.

I don't linger on the fact that she's just admitted that she's asked Quinn about me. I've been bugging the blonde almost relentlessly with questions about Santana. I take a second to realize that Quinn is probably extremely confused by our interests in each other by now.

"It's nice, but not my favorite place to live. It was too hot, actually. I like the weather here much better," I answer.

She moves her head to face me again and my heart skips a beat as her deep, brown eyes find mine.

"Where else have you lived?" she asks. I laugh at her question, because if I chose to answer it honestly, we would be here all night.

"Pretty much everywhere," I choose to say and look away.

"I want to get out of Lima once I graduate. I hate this place so much. I just…" she pauses a moment to sigh. "I can't wait to see the rest of the world," she adds.

It's admissions like these that make me kind of sad. I want to be able to share with her every moment and experience from our past. I want her to recall that she's seen more of the world than probably every other person on this planet—even more than me. But, I can't. She can't remember anything, and it makes me sad.

I say that she's seen more of the world than I have because I believe that Santana's soul is older than mine.

In the past couple hundred years or so, I've spent a great deal of time learning more about our past and searching for others like us. We've been around for much longer than most of the human population, because most souls don't live nearly as long as ours do. Most of them last a few lives and then parish. I don't know what happens to them. I guess they go to heaven or someplace like that. But, there are probably about a thousand souls on this planet that are older than me. Out of those thousand, only a handful has memories like mine, and I have met most of them.

And so I've learned to gauge and estimate the age of other souls. I've been able to recognize and determine all the differences in our beings. The older ones have the same aura that I've described I have.

But Santana's… hers is unlike any other I've ever seen or felt. Maybe that's part of the connection I have with her. Maybe I keep coming back to her because she's so antique and unique compared to everyone else around us.

I frequently wonder how old she truly is, but I've come to face the reality that I'll probably never know for sure.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you will," I say and take a deep breath.

"Where do you want to go to school once you graduate?" she asks.

In my head, I'm telling her that I'll follow her to the edge of the earth. I'll go to any school she chooses; I'll do everything in my power to make sure she is always happy. But out loud, I settle for a lie.

"I don't really know," I shrug my shoulders.

She seems content with that answer. I'm sure there are plenty of other teenagers who don't know what they want to do after high school.

I don't know how long we stay there, but when the sun finally sets below the horizon, I assume that it's been too long. The only light is now coming from the dim lanterns on the brick outside and the glass windows. I can't really hide the chill that's crept over me.

The sliding glass door opens behind us, and I turn to face the noise. Quinn's walking towards us with curiosity in her eyes.

"Hey," she says and I smile at her. She finally reaches the table and stands in front of us. "I'm glad you two _finally_ talked to each other. You've been driving me completely insane with all your questions. I was about to tell you to just find out yourselves, but I guess you got around to that without my help," she laughs to herself.

"Real funny Q," Santana says, sarcastically as she snuggles further into my sweatshirt.

"Well, anyways… Puck just asked me to see where you were, so I came to find you. Are you okay?" she asks. I guess Puck is her boyfriend.

I want to know the answer to this question too, so I focus intently on her reaction. Her face scrunches up and she shakes her head back and forth.

"I'm fine," she mumbles and crosses her arms over her chest in frustration. She's obviously still mad at Puck.

"He probably just wants to get laid, and I'm _definitely _not in the mood for that," she rolls her eyes and snorts. "He's only nice when he wants to fuck," she finishes.

Her words are little stings piercing through my heart, but I've felt worse before. It's definitely tough knowing that she's sharing that part of herself with someone else. But, I guess it could be worse.

There have been several occasions in which I've found her and she's been married or in a committed and mature relationship. Sometimes she even has children, and in those instances, I have to just keep my distance, no matter how sad or angry I get.

So, the thought that she's having sex with her douche-bag of a boyfriend, who doesn't treat her right, isn't too painful for me. If anything, I'm more worried about what that relationship is doing to her.

"You should just dump him, Santana," Quinn says as she leans back on the railing of the wooden picket fence close to us.

I want to jump up and scream that I agree. I want to say that Quinn's right and that Santana deserves better, but I just stay quiet. Santana doesn't know me as well as I know her, and I don't want to seem insensitive.

"Yeah, well…" she hesitates. It's as if she's trying to come up with a reason to stay with Puck, but can't. If that's any indication, I don't know what is.

"Exactly," Quinn nods her head and smirks, knowingly.

We stay there in complete silence until a fast and cool breeze zips past us, making me shiver. Quinn hugs her arms and begins bouncing on her toes.

"Jeeze, it's cold. I guess fall's finally decided to show up," Quinn announces and chuckles. "I'm going back inside. What should I tell Puck?" Quinn asks.

Santana coughs into my sleeve and looks up to the blonde in front of us.

"Just tell him I left," she answers. "I think I'm gonna walk home anyways. I'm not really in the mood to party."

"Alright," Quinn responds, questioning. She turns to me and smiles. "See you later, Brittany," and she leaves us to go back inside.

"Bye," I say and fall further into the chair.

"So, do _you _not like parties, or something?" she repeats my earlier question.

I smile at her. "Honestly… I really hate them," I answer.

Santana gives me a quizzical stare. "Then why'd you come?" her forehead wrinkles in confusion.

Of course she's the real reason that I came. I wouldn't have even bothered if I thought she wasn't going to show up. But, I can't tell her that; it might seem kind of creepy.

So, I shrug my shoulder and sigh. "I guess I had nothing better to do," I answer.

A few minutes pass before I notice that it's getting almost uncomfortably cold. My feet have pretty much gone numb, and I can barely feel my fingers even with them tucked into the crease between my stomach and thighs. Santana's looks cold too, even with my sweater on. She's shivering and has started blowing warm air into her hands to keep the blood circulating.

I guess the cold's become too much, because Santana finally stands up from the chair and begins to remove my sweater. Before she has time to finish, my hand jumps up to grab hers and stops her.

The moment our skin grazes against each other, an electrical charge zaps from my fingertips to hers. I've grown used to that feeling, but it's pretty obvious that it surprises and shocks Santana, because she pulls her hand away almost instantly.

"Sorry," I say quickly and let my hand fall to my side again. She still looks startled.

"You said you were walking home," I explain. "You should keep it," I motion to the sweatshirt. "You can give it back to me at school on Monday," I finish and offer a kind grin.

Her eyes are intense on my face, and I feel nervousness and uncertainty creep through my veins. If I've upset her, I honestly didn't mean to. I'm just trying to be nice. Her next words contradict what I think she's feeling, though, and they leave me confused.

"Do you want to walk home with me?"

I guess I'm only good at reading people that aren't Santana, because I certainly wasn't expecting that.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: So terribly sorry for the wait! I've just been away a lot for the past month and quite busy with upcoming exams, so I apologize a thousand times. Thanks so much to everyone who left reviews; they keep me coming back to write, so thanks. And now that my schedule isn't so hectic, I should be able to update much more frequently. This chapter is shorter, and full of angst again. Brittany's past lives are not always happy, but that's what has made her such an interesting and strong character. ****Anyways, hope you enjoy, sorry for any mistakes, and leave a review. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, these characters, or _My Name is Memory_. **

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><p><strong>1055<strong>

**Mediterranean**

At the beginning of my second life, Anna was still very much alive, living and breathing in the same body that I had loved before but couldn't remember. I was taking my first harsh and vital breaths as a newborn baby, while she was miles away mourning from my death.

I wish that we could be the same age physically in every new life, but that isn't the case. It's simply another one of His rules—we must _always_ exist together. I'm not allowed to wait in limbo for her soul to be reborn at the same time as mine. I must enter a new body in the exact instant I leave my other previous one. It doesn't matter how far apart we are, how many thousands of miles separate the two of us from each other. If she is still here—if her heart is still beating, so is mine.

So when my eyes open again for the first time, taking in this world that is so familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time, it's both a celebration and a moment of grievance and loss. With every new life, comes the actuality that I have been stripped of everything that I ever was. If I had been happy, then I lost that happiness. If I had been utterly disappointed, then this was my new life—a blank slate to fix what I had screwed up. Tabula rasa.

I was born on the coast of Sicily in my second life, in the city of Palermo. Unbeknownst to me, Anna was roughly 900 miles or so away when I entered this world for the second time. Unfortunately, I had no memory of her, so I went years without realizing that my soul-mate was not too far away. Especially since my father was a merchant who traded and sailed on the Mediterranean practically his whole life. In fact, I remember that he and I often traveled close to the great capital that I had lived in for almost fourteen years.

My father was Serbian, born and raised in Sirmion before he moved south to the coast and joined a fleet of sailors who taught him everything about trade. He was young when he met my mother in Palermo. And despite the religious, language, and cultural barriers, along with the definite secrecy of their relationship, they fell in love. I was born soon after, and years passed almost indefinitely.

When I was a teenager, my father told me stories about my deceased mother. We were long gone from the city of Palermo, traveling the seas together and separated from the civilization that existed on the land we were intentionally avoiding.

My father loved the sea—there was something about it that comforted him more than land and society. And if he hadn't spoken about my mother with such undying affection, I would have believed that there wasn't anything he loved more.

On calm mornings, when we were arriving at the ports of cities and towns scattered throughout the Mediterranean and Atlantic, I could understand my father's fixation with the water. The beauty sketched in the reflection of the sky in the clear, azure water beneath our feet as the sun climbed towards the heavens was purely exquisite. The serenity that surrounded me was in complete contrast to the pestering anxiety and worry that I faced in my previous life. And that was why I didn't remember anything until I was much older. And even then, there were never really specific memories that appeared, only moments of confusion and déjà vu. It wasn't until I saw _her _again, when I was on the brink of death, that I even remembered Anna at all.

* * *

><p>Our boat was small, but considering the times, it was better than most others. I can't remember what it looked like exactly, but I remember that it was about twenty meters long, with one rather large sail and a small cabin at the stern where I slept most nights with the boxes of whatever shipments we were carrying. We usually needed only a few crewmen to help us, but occasionally it was just my father and me. And during those weeks together, I was happiest.<p>

When there were other men with us, my father made me tie my hair up and wrap cloth around my chest to hide the fact that I was a woman. He was worried that the men would take advantage of me if they found out that I wasn't a man. No man ever discovered my secret.

During those weeks when we weren't alone, I never spoke to anyone other than my father. And even then, it was only to whisper comments and important information regarding our job. Instead, I began watching and observing the men around me. I learned more with my eyes than my words, just like I still do today. I'm still hesitant to speak what I'm thinking. I'd much rather _see_ than say.

And because I could read others so well, I learned rather quickly that the men around me were broken and lost; I could see it on their faces and in the wrinkles that had been cut into their rough skin. Their eyes were cold and chilling to the core, like the winds we had headed into when we brushed past the coast of England that one winter. They were lonely.

Some of them loathed the sea; it made them sicker than I had ever been before. And when the boat rocked with intensity during rough and windy periods, the air was clouded with the scent of vomit. Sometimes it even made me sick and sweaty and turned my hands all clammy. During those days, I hated the ocean. I hated what it did to us. I hated that it made me pity the men around me. But most of all, I hated that it turned my father uneasy.

My father was not a nervous or apprehensive man when it came to his job. But sometimes during a rough storm, when we were too far from land and it seemed like we had found our way to the edge of the earth, I could have sworn that I saw a hint of concern in his dark eyes.

Our job was dangerous—there was no denying that. Water is a force of nature unlike anything else. The sheer power and brutality that hid beneath it was often unsettling. But, I don't think I ever imagined that there was another force in the seas that was just as precarious. I had only ever heard my father mention it once, and he had mumbled it briefly below his breath one night after one of his men had said something to him. _Pirates. _

I knew what they were; I wasn't stupid, but I had never given it too much thought before. I never imagined that we would come face to face with the cruelty of humanity, something that I had been protected from my whole life.

* * *

><p>When our ship wasn't traveling with large convoys with military escorts from the countries we traded with, I noticed that my father was frequently on edge. He liked the calmness of the open ocean when we were traveling alone. But when we were at the heart of the Mediterranean, he liked to stick with other ships to avoid any sort of risk from piracy.<p>

They came with no warning one night after our departure from a port in the Aegean. Once our ship was plundered, there was nothing we could do. We had no protection or weapons powerful enough to fight. We were ripped from our boat and our cargo was transferred before I had enough time to fully react. Our captors were quick and ruthless.

I knew that captives like us would either be held for ransom or sold as slaves. And since my father was quite old and didn't belong to any particular lucrative business enterprise, I was betting on the latter.

We were thrown onto the deck of their ship—my father and I—along with the rest of our pitiful crew. There were only a few men that I didn't recognize running around us and holding knives and other weapons at their belts. I was afraid to do or say anything, so I just watched with hopeful eyes and turned my gaze to my father's every few seconds.

He kept whispering something to me, but I was too busy watching and looking to hear his words.

I don't remember how long we lay there, but once the ship was moving away from our boat and the commotion started settling down around us, a tall man with dark skin, thick muscles, and scary eyes moved towards us. The next few seconds seemed to both pass quickly and last forever at the same time.

I heard the cries of my father as I watched the man with cruel eyes cut his throat and empty his pockets, and I remember screaming into the sky above us as I sunk into the splintering wood beneath my trembling frame.

And as soon as I watched the life leave his lithe body, memories were spilling from every connection in my brain. They were pouring from every crease within my body, heart, and soul. Every single memory of pain and abuse and hurt were surrounding me in thundering suffocation. It was all I could feel and see and _be_ for a million infinitely long moments. I recall praying for immediate death and swearing that if it didn't come, I would use the rest of my strength to throw myself into the ocean and swim until I couldn't anymore.

And when I finally took a much needed breath from the musky air encompassing me, I opened the eyes that I hadn't even realized were closed. And I just watched the sky.

The stars above my head were foggy in the moonlight as my tears clouded what little vision remained. They were the only thing still tethering me to this place, as my thoughts and consciousness soared to heights I couldn't comprehend. And then… just as quickly as the stars had been brought to my attention, they were gone seconds later.

Because, I was staring into something ten billion times more beautiful. Eyes that brought me to tears with memories of a love I had long forgotten. It was _her_, standing above me with a fierce vengeance that left me stunned.

"Anna?" I choked out as she kneeled down to move closer to my body and hover over my shaking chest.

I watched as her eyes transformed from anger to confusion, and then seconds later, to complete disbelief. I couldn't understand what I was seeing and feeling. I didn't know or comprehend why, when I looked at this girl standing above me, I felt so sickeningly… _in_ _love. _

She looked young—probably in her late teens—and so very, very beautiful. Even with the hints of evil and sin across her brow. I didn't want to bother imagining the acts she had committed to earn them.

"Anna?" I repeated quietly. But this time, her forehead crinkled and she frowned. Her eyes were angry again, and it caused a shiver to run up my spine.

"Do it," I heard the man who had killed my father say from behind Anna.

She took a moment to take a few breaths and study me over again, her eyes full of contempt that scared me immensely. And even though I knew what she was about to do—even though I knew that she was about to kill me—her beauty in my eyes didn't dissipate once.

She moved her hand to the space between my chin and collar and held the thin metal frame unsteadily.

"Do it," the man said again, firmly. I didn't move my eyes from hers for a second.

I nodded my head in agreement, giving her permission. "Do it," I ordered.

In the time that she hesitated, the man above her surged forward, and in one quick swipe, sliced my neck. I was taking my last few breaths only moments later, apologizing to the woman above me with my eyes as best I could.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: I thought I'd give you guys another update as an apology for taking so long on the last one. Plus, I've just finished the outline for the story and couldn't control my urge to write, so this just poured out of me today. Hope you enjoy, sorry for any mistakes, and thanks for coming back to read!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, these characters, or _My Name is Memory_**

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><p><strong>2008<strong>

**Lima, Ohio**

"I didn't realize you lived in this neighborhood," I state as we pass my house on the end of the street and turn onto a less-busy and quieter road, leaving the commotion and noise of the party in our tracks.

Santana's eyes meet mine and I swallow, the intensity of her stare sending ripples of pounding excitement through my bloodstream. When I exhale suddenly, I can see my warm breath against the darkness surrounding us.

"Yeah, right up there," she points to the houses at the end of the street before inhaling deeply and curling a lock of hair behind her ear. When her arms fall to her sides again, she folds her hands beneath her armpits and hugs herself to keep warm.

I can't help the smile that tugs at the ends of my lips at her answer; Santana grins and chuckles softly in response.

"What?" she whispers, her eyes wide and questioning.

I smirk back at her and curl my bottom lip up between my teeth, biting down. I just shake my head at her and look away seconds later.

We continue to walk down the pavement of the street, silence looming and settling in the air and space between the two of us. I could never take this for granted—this feeling of contentment and peace I feel just _being _with her. It's even overshadowing the extreme attraction that's been bubbling below my belly and making my heart beat _just a little bit _faster for the past hour. It takes the edge off the want and desire for her that I've been trying to desperately keep at bay.

"You know, I've been watching you," she says, the tone of her voice telling me that she's about to comment on something she's seen and doesn't approve of. I've heard that particular voice _many _times.

"I've noticed," I mumble loud enough for her to hear, smirking again.

"And frankly," there's criticism blatantly evident in her words. "If you want to fit in here, you're going to have to make more of an effort," she finishes, her eyebrows raised, the skin on her forehead scrunched, and her cockiness beginning to shine through.

I roll my eyes and shake my head at her knowingly.

"I don't need the approval of our classmates, Santana," I shrug my shoulders and sigh loudly.

Santana doesn't have a witty retort to my statement, and I try to hide the grin on my face.

When we finally arrive at her house—the large and impressive stucco one on the left in the cul-de-sac—she stops and turns to face me again. I can tell that she wants to say something, but is too confused or unsure about her thoughts. So instead, she goes to remove my sweatshirt and hands it back over to me with a quiet "thanks."

"No problem," I respond, smiling my warmest smile back at her. Her wellbeing is always my first concern.

Santana shakes her head in annoyance and exhales, her analytical gaze staying glued to my face.

"Are you _sure_ we haven't met before?" she finally asks.

I watch as she fidgets with the hem of her shirt and begins to shiver in the cold. Her feet shuffle on the ground, her left foot scuffing against the pavement beneath us.

She's nervous, I can tell.

"Goodnight Santana," I answer back, smugly.

For a second I think I see a hint of recognition flash behind her dark eyes, a tiny flush of recollection swimming in the pools around her pupils. But it's gone almost too quickly, dissipating too fast for her to take hold of and start to question. It's a shame and disappointment, but I can't expect anything different. I know it's impossible for her to remember me.

So I turn away, leaving with the echoing sound of her "goodnight" resounding in my ears.

* * *

><p>When I awake the next morning, I feel the sweat dripping and rolling down my neck and back as I try to calm my erratic and uneven breaths. The nightmares of my dreams are still playing over and over again behind my eyelids as I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, hoping to rid myself of the haunting images.<p>

Even now, with my childhood far behind me, I still have dreams from my past that leave me terrified. They are memories that I wish I could have forgotten—memories that I try too hard to stuff away into the deepest pits of my unconscious. But I don't have the ability to pick and choose which events from my past I recall and which ones I don't. They are _all_ there, constantly reminding me that there are evils out there that even I am not immune to. Evils that can still find and destroy me now.

There's a swift knock on my bedroom, and I sit up and straighten out my tangled sheets and bed spread.

"Brittany?" I hear my mom's voice ringing through the walls and I quickly take the sleeve of my pajama shirt and wipe away the evidence of my nightmare from my forehead.

"Come in," I answer loudly as I watch the door to my room open and take in my mother standing before me.

She's dressed in her usual Saturday attire—grey yoga pants and her University of Chicago sweatshirt, with her blonde hair tied back in a messy bun. I take a quick glance at the clock resting on my nightstand which tells me that it's almost ten.

"I'm heading out to the store. Is there anything you need?" she asks, as she looks around my room, taking in the dozens of books scattered across the floor. Her eyes are full of confusion. She's trying to read the various titles, most of which are in differing languages. I try to remember which ones I had been sorting through and had left out for later reading.

There's a couple Spanish and Portuguese ones nestled on the top of a large world atlas in the corner of my room. There're also a dozen French philosophy books covering up a small pile of clothing. And if I recall correctly, there's also an old Hebrew manuscript near where she's standing.

"No, I'm good," I answer.

"Um…" she hesitates, removing her eyes from the floor to look to me again. She holds up and small piece of paper she's folded over a couple times. "This is the address and directions to a studio in town. I called the owner and she said that you can use the space for a couple hours today if you want. If you like the place, we can probably work out some permanent schedule," she smiles kindly and places the paper on the dresser near to her.

"Thanks," I answer and scratch the back of my neck.

My mother stands still for a few seconds, awkwardly staring at me before shaking her head out of her daze and turning.

"And… clean up your room before you go," she says on her way out. I watch as she closes the door behind her and listen to her steps down the hardwood floors as she walks away. When I can no longer hear her, I flip back my covers and stand to stretch.

The feeling of air against the patches of damp fabric on my back cools down my hot and sweaty body, leaving me chilled.

I walk over to the dresser where the piece of paper lies and unfold it, reading the name of the dance studio scribbled in my mother's messy handwriting. My mom was even kind enough to leave a number with the directions in case I got lost.

Dance is something that I've grown to love only in the last couple hundred years. And it is always different with every new body I take; sometimes it's almost impossible, with my inflexible and uncoordinated limbs. It doesn't matter that I _know_ how to do every turn and step inside my head. Sometimes, my legs and arms just don't want to move that way.

So when I found myself in this life, where my body is almost as perfect for dancing as the one I had in the1800s, I've fallen in love with dance yet again.

I lived the dream once—dancing professionally for the Bolshoi Ballet when I was teenager and young woman while living in Russia in the 1870s. It was an incredible and amazing experience, and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but I won't pursue the same career again. I loved being a dancer, but I love Santana more.

Plus, I hate repetition. Why live the same life again, when I've already suffered and thrived in one of the most renowned ballets in the world?

After I shower and get dressed in my work-out clothes, grab a quick breakfast and say good morning to my father, I get in my dad's Mercedes and make my way into town. And as I pull out of our driveway, I look over my shoulder towards the stucco house a few hundred meters away and smile. I like that I know she's close by.

* * *

><p>The studio is small and tucked away in a side street, hidden from the busy town. The brick building is old and a couple stories tall, with those metal emergency stairs off to the side like you see in big cities on tightly compacted streets.<p>

The whole front of the shop is a giant window, with a glass door off to the left and a tiny wooden mailbox and a planter pot nailed to the frame of the brick. It's quaint and cute and nothing too showy.

It's perfect.

When I walk through the doors, a small bell rings above my head, and I absorb the inside of the place. There's only one giant room, a small observation area where about five or six parents are sitting and watching their small children, and a little office in the corner.

I recognize the instructor immediately and smile—it's Mike from school.

When he sees me, he waves before continuing on conversing with a small girl who can't be much older than five. She's adorable in her pink tutu and ballet slippers.

As I wait for the parents and children to say their goodbyes and make their exits, I move to take a look at the photos along the furthest white wall from the door. It's the only wall without a mirror, but it's completely filled with both black and white images from a long time ago, along with much brighter and colorful pictures from more recent years.

There are crests from some of the best ballet and dance companies in the world hidden within the mix of images. I look around for a few moments until I find the one I'm most familiar with—the one I saw almost every day for ten years.

Surrounding the crest, there are images of a few beautiful girls, sheathed in complete blackness except for the single spotlight reigning upon their graceful bodies. These are some of the best photos I've ever seen. They are completely breathtaking.

"It's cool, isn't it?" I hear Mike say from behind me as I continue to gloss over the beautiful pictures along the wall.

"How did you get all of them?" I ask, turning to face the tall Asian. Mike smiles when my eyes meet his.

"Emma, the owner of the studio, got them from her grandmother. Apparently she was a dancer at the Paris Opera Ballet. She got a lot of these really old ones from her traveling," Mike answers, looking back at the pictures.

"They're amazing," I admit, and look on with awe again.

It doesn't take too long to notice one particular image as my eyes bulge and my breath halts. There's a small photo, old and crinkled and resting in a protective frame, near the end of the wall.

It's black and white and probably the oldest one I've seen in the collection. It's of a woman that I recognize immediately, pirouetting on the stage of a massive and ostentatious theatre. The curve of her body and the grace of her arms and neck are perfect in every way. I could recognize this woman anywhere. She was my inspiration for dance so long ago. She was my mother in another lifetime. And how a picture of her found its way onto the wall in this tiny dance studio in Ohio is completely mind-blowing.

"That's my favorite," Mike says, pointing to the picture I've been eyeing, and sighs. "There's something about her…" he begins and pauses in contemplation.

"Yeah," I exhale and nod in agreement. I understand him perfectly.

My mother was one of the most famous dancers at the time. Thousands of people would come from all over the country to Moscow just to see her dance. I remember feeling so lucky that she was mine.

"So, what are you doing here?" Mike asks, as he turns around and walks to the corner of the room to pick up a towel off of a gym bag and wipe his face of sweat.

"My mom called, and Emma—the owner?—she said I could use the studio for a little while," I admit and move to face Mike.

"I didn't know you dance," Mike said, surprised.

"Same," I retort.

"Yeah, well, Emma lets me dance here for free since I teach a couple of her classes when she's too busy," he says, shrugging his shoulders.

"That's a nice arrangement," I say.

"Definitely," Mike responds, grinning again.

We're both silent for a few moments, before Mike takes a deep breath and moves from his frozen state.

"Well, have fun. Emma's in the office; there's no more classes until tonight, so the place is yours," he smiles one last time before waving goodbye and walking out of the building, the little bell signaling his exit.

After I find Emma, introduce myself and listen to her list of rules about the studio, I make my way back to the large room. I find the stereo and plug in my iPod, shuffling until I find my mix of old orchestra and opera music.

I love all kinds of dance—hip-hop, jazz, tap—but ballet is what I know. Ballet was once my entire life.

And as the music begins to flow from the speakers and fill the room, I let my body perform the dances that my mind has tried so hard to never forget. Muscle memory is easy, but attempting to remember steps and movements through thoughts is a difficult challenge.

My moves are graceful and fluid, only from years and years of practice and adjustment with this new body. But yet it's still so freeing and wonderful to just let the music consume my every limb, until I'm practically able to float across the space around me.

Time floats by quickly when I dance, as I loose myself in memories of performing in large crowds in one of the most beautiful and magnificent theatres in the world. Memories of performing for my mother. Memories of performing and dancing for _her_.

I'm so glad that _she _was able to see me dance in that life. I don't think I will ever have the same ability I did when I was living in Russia. And though this body is very supple and strong, I know it withers in comparison to what I once had.

It's twelve o'clock when I see Emma exit her office and stand to watch me. I don't care about the critical and analyzing looks she's giving me. She's a dance teacher—that's what they do.

I know I'm flawed. I haven't had proper instruction since I was ten. But I don't dance for anyone else anymore, not like I used to, anyways. I only dance for myself.

It takes a few more minutes before I notice that Emma is no longer the only one watching me.

I catch two brown eyes through the window, peering through the clear glass, and I freeze immediately at the detection—my heart thumping inside my still body, my breathing fast.

Santana's not the only one standing there. I see Quinn next to her, along with the same blonde-haired boy she was talking with at the party yesterday. Their eyes are all wide with surprise and I don't hesitate to wipe the fallen strands of hair away from my face.

When Quinn makes a move, like she's going to enter the building, I see Santana tug back on her hand and plead with her eyes for Quinn to not leave. But Quinn pulls away quickly and opens the door, entering the warm studio room.

She waves hello first and smiles.

"Hi, Brittany," she says. Her eyes are still as wide as they were when the walls of the building were separating the two of us. I can hear how impressed she is in the tone of her voice.

"Hey," I smile and walk to the stereo to pull out my iPod, stopping the loud opera music that has been ringing through the room.

Quinn looks back over her shoulder at Santana, who's clearly not happy that the blonde has come to say hello. I roll my eyes before Quinn turns back to face me.

"Hey, we're going to go get lunch down the street. If you're interested, you're welcome to join us."

I look down at my sweaty body and frown because I know I would love to come, but I'm not really in the best shape to go eat out. Quinn catches my dilemma in my expression.

"It's not fancy at all," she assures me. "Santana and I used to grab lunch there after our morning work-outs all the time."

Once I digest her words, it doesn't take longer than a couple seconds for me to answer.

"Sure," I say and send a "thank you" and quick wave goodbye to Emma over my shoulder before following Quinn to the door.

* * *

><p>We grab a table inside the small café, right near the door to the patio. Every now and then, someone enters, and a draft of cold air flows past us, helping to cool down my hot and sticky body.<p>

Santana sits across from me, while Sam—I learned his name outside—takes a seat next to me and across from Quinn.

Once the waitress walks by to take our drink orders, hand us our menus and tell us the day's specials, the awkwardness settles in. And once the woman leaves our table, it becomes even more obvious.

Santana's trying too hard to keep her eyes away from me, while Quinn keeps cocking her eyebrow at the Latina's confusing frustration. Sam just watches on in total obliviousness.

Eventually, he breaks the silence.

"So, Brittany, how long have you been dancing?" he asks, the same impressed tone that Quinn had earlier evident in his voice.

I look to Santana first—her eyes are wide with curiosity. "A long time," I say smiling.

"You're really good," he admits, and Quinn nods her head in agreement.

The waitress returns with our drinks before I get to respond. I take long gulps of my water as she turns and walks away.

I don't realize my hands are shaking until I go to put the cup down. Quinn's eyeing me funnily, and I'm trying not to give anything away.

For the next few minutes, Sam and Quinn ask me questions about my dance and family. I tell them all the places that we've lived before we moved to Lima. First Cincinnati, then Miami, New York, Charlotte, Chicago, and Phoenix. They ask me various questions about the cities and the people. I give them brief and basic answers, while keeping a constant eye on Santana. She's been staring at me the whole time I've been chatting.

A half hour later, we're eating our sandwiches and Quinn and Sam are talking about school and football and cheerleading. Santana hasn't said a single word since we sat down. The most she's offered are small sounds of approval and a few nods of her head in agreement of something Quinn asked or said.

I watch as she picks at the parts of her sandwich and stares at it, not really making any effort to actually _eat _it.

"Not hungry?" I ask; she looks up to my voice.

"Not really," she sighs, staring at me again and shuffling in her chair.

I can tell that she isn't comfortable with me being here. _But,_ I'm not sure if she would have been any happier as a third wheel on what looks to me like a lunch date between Quinn and Sam.

I sigh loudly and give her an apologetic smile, hoping that she takes it and understands.

I know this is weird for her; I can't even begin to fathom what it must be like to have all these feelings for me and no recollection or memory of us ever meeting until a few weeks ago. And if she's feeling anything like I am now, with this irresistible attraction boiling and pulling me in only _one _direction, than I know for a fact that she's got to be shaking in her seat.

I wish I could make this easier for her; this whole 'getting to know each other' bit. But I can't.

Actually, I _really _wish that we could just skip that whole part altogether so I could just take her to bed and make love to her like I've been wanting and waiting to do since I saw her in school that first day. But, that's just me skipping formalities and letting my thoughts run rampant. I'm usually very good at controlling them. _Usually. _

I can't get ahead of myself.

"Do you want it?" she asks, pointing to her meal after eyeing my now-clean plate.

I laugh and shake my head. "No thanks," I answer. Santana leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, looking up and staring again. At me.

I haven't decided if I'm smug or irritated yet.

"Is there something bothering you?" I ask, knowing perfectly well that she's not going to answer honestly.

Santana grimaces before taking a sip of her tea. She doesn't answer me, but her silence speaks louder than words.

Barely a few minutes later, we're all putting in a few dollar bills and getting up to finally leave the table. The three of them take their coats off the back of their chairs and slip their arms through the sleeves, bundling up for the chilly weather outside.

While they push in their chairs, Sam tells Quinn that he wants to go to this music store at the end of the street because apparently Puck's working there and he wants to say hi and look around. I don't miss the eye roll from Santana at the mention of his name. I can tell that she's definitely not interested in joining him.

"I'm not going, Q," Santana speaks, interjecting Quinn while she tells Sam that she wants to tag along with him.

Since Quinn seems to be Santana's ride home, the blonde huffs once Santana speaks and then eventually sighs and looks to Sam to apologize.

"I guess we'll have to go another time," Quinn shrugs her shoulders and smiles.

I look towards Santana again and wonder if I should even bother offering. But I find Santana's grouchiness kind of endearing, and the more time I spend with her, the less awkward she'll feel around me.

"I can give Santana a ride home, so you can go, if you want," I say and the watch as Santana's eyes widen and she opens her mouth to object. Quinn doesn't give her the chance.

"Oh… cool," she says and doesn't even bother to ask Santana if it's alright before she turns to take Sam's hand and leads the way for us to follow them out the door.

Santana looks pissed, as she mumbles some expletives under her breath that I don't think Quinn or Sam pick up, but _I _think it's kind of funny.

Since my car's only a few feet away, parked on the side of the road near the dance studio a couple shops down, we say goodbye to Sam and Quinn before they leave us to head in the opposite direction.

"You _really _didn't have to offer, you know," Santana states, clearly annoyed at both Quinn and me.

I smile brightly at her anyways. "Yeah, but I don't mind," I respond and begin walking towards my car.

I pull out the keys from my pocket and unlock the doors to the Mercedes. Santana cocks an eyebrow when she sees the car; I shake me head and roll my eyes.

"It's my dad's," I admit, and she nods and opens the passenger door to climb in after me.

The ride home is almost excruciatingly quiet, and as the seconds tick past, I'm starting to regret offering to give her a ride home at all.

I wasn't expecting it, but this close proximity is… almost sickening.

It doesn't take long before my hands are sweating and my heart is racing and the little bit of control over my emotions that I've been managing pretty well so far are spilling over and almost suffocating me.

I do little mental exercises, trying to distract myself from the desire coursing through me like adrenaline.

I try and think about the beaches in Italy and how blue the water was and how white the soft sand felt between my toes. I remember the calming nights I spent on the ocean with the stars twinkling above my head and my father's snores lulling me to sleep. I recall the hours upon hours I spent dancing on the stage of the Bolshoi theatre days after a performance, when I knew I could just take my time and do what I loved to do.

And when I pull into our neighborhood at last, I've actually managed to calm myself down immensely, to the point where my breathing's almost at a completely normal pace and I can no longer feel my heart pounding within my chest.

We pass by my street quickly, and I don't even bother to look to the right to see my house. I just keep my eyes on the road to manage the control that I've just rebuilt.

We pull into her driveway moments later and I hear Santana exhale loudly, her breath shaky.

"Well, thanks for the ride," she says and I look her way, grinning.

She looks exhausted, and I want to apologize because I know she's probably mad at me. I'm the only person she can blame for those emotions she doesn't understand flooding through her. Plus, driving her home has seemed to make everything ten times worse.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out and she watches me carefully, eyes struggling to stay pissy.

And then, it must have been in the amount of time that I blinked, Santana leans over the compartment separating us, and crashes her lips to mine in one fluid motion.

My eyes shoot open wide, and my breath catches as her warm and soft lips form to my mouth. I don't notice that her hands have grabbed my face or that her eyes are shut tight, until barely a second later. And by that time, her mouth is gone from mine, and all I want to do is pull her back into the kiss so I can actually reciprocate instead of just sitting there in complete and utter shock.

But the look on her face says _no, no, no_, and I want to bang my head against the back of the headrest.

She looks terrified, with her eyes wild and her gasping breath filling the car.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she rants as her hands find her face and her head falls forward. Her elbows settling on her shaking knees.

I'm not quite sure what to do, so I give her a few moments to calm down. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like my silence has helped.

"I'm _soooo _sorry," she whines as her eyes meet mine, apologetically. She shakes her head back and forth in a furious pace and reaches for the handle to the car door instantly.

"It's okay, Santana," I say—once the startled expression on my face has dissipated—in the most reasonable and comforting voice I can manage, considering.

"No it's not, I shouldn't have done that." She steps out of the car, and her feet meet the concrete. "Forget it ever happened," she says, slamming the car door shut and then proceeding to walk up the pathway to her house.

I don't move, not even after she opens the front door of her home and closes it quickly behind her. I don't move or breathe or even look away from the line of my eyesight until I absolutely have to.

And then anger curls up, and disappointment in myself wells and churns inside my stomach, and I just want to slap myself for just… _sitting _here and doing _absolutely nothing _while Santana was panicking.

I rub my palms up and down and across my face, and take a few shallow breaths before opening my eyes and bringing my hand to the clutch to put the car in reverse.

I'm in a sort of daze the ride back down the street. Mad at myself for fucking up and making this whole process a hell of a lot messier.

But as soon as my car pulls up to the front of my house, and I focus on what I must have missed while driving by to drop Santana off at her home, my heart drops to depths I didn't think were even possible within my chest. And I just freeze as the tears well up in my eyes instantaneously.

He's different, but very much the same. I don't have to be up close to know who it is, but he takes a few strides in my direction anyway.

I unfasten me seatbelt and take a deep breath before opening the car door and planting my feet on the ground. All the while, I try to keep the panicked look hidden behind the anger and ferocity I don't mind him seeing. Even if I can't stop myself from thinking _How did he find me? How did he find me? How did he find me?_ And then wincing because I know what him showing up means.

He's tall and young, probably only in his late teens like me, but I can detect the true age in his dark green eyes.

I close the door behind me as he stands before me and his hand cups my cheek, causing me to cringe and moan silently.

"Hello, my sweet sister," he coos softly as his hand begins to caresses my face. I want to vomit.

"Adam," I grunt and flinch as his name leaves my lips.

He drops his hand instantly and takes one last step towards me. His eyes are furious and his smile is hostile.

"Oh, how I've missed you, my _dear, dear _Lucy," he says as he tilts his head down, bowing to me in mockery.


End file.
